


carry the weight of the world

by adevism



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 03:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6356878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adevism/pseuds/adevism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead you fix your eyes on the crowd and wonder why happiness feels so incomplete, when everything you want is right here, in this room, on this stage, and it's not the crowd.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>maye he is a prodigy, and you are just his support.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	carry the weight of the world

**Author's Note:**

> i am very well aware that this is almost impossible to understand, horribly written and just very weird in general. i apologize for that, but i will still write it and continue it whenever i like. it's something that is very pathetic for me to write, but i still feel like i need to write it. another note, this is about whoever you want it to be. make it about whoever you think it fits, or just read it the way it is - i don't mind either. my honesty apologizes for being so cryptic.

**i**.

 

The first time the crowd cheers for you – _really_ cheers, eyes wide from excitement, exchanging furious words that feel like a storm, even if they whisper them – you want to turn your head. You want to look at him, want to know if there is a spark in his eyes, the same spark you feel within your very pulse, within every cell of your shaking body, you want to feel _connected_ to him.

 

(it's an excuse, because you always search for excuses before you look into his eyes)

 

Instead you fix your eyes on the crowd and wonder why happiness feels so incomplete, when everything you want is right here, in this room, on this stage, and it's not the crowd. It never was.

 

**ii**.

 

They call you a lot of things, and none of them are true. When they say you're talented, you bite your lip and the smile is tight and tired and feels so fake, you can almost taste it. You know none of them sees it, and you turn your head away from the two that could. Sometimes you try to remember how everything started, with honesty and self-doubt, rotting away, turning into self-doubt and fake smiles and „y _eah, i did that pretty well, right?_ “, followed by the right amout of laughter.

 

They call your team _the new stars_ , but in the end it's the same old big talk about glorious things, when all you are is a bunch of messy teenagers who went to far with what they were having fun with. Sometimes you wish you were still at your apartment, curled into a blanket, with the sun rising up in front of your window (and still, you romanticize _everything_ ), just them and you and your parents next door, another victory, another defeat – but _nothing_ mattered. Now everything does.

 

They name him in the same breath as the other ad carrys, those who rose about all the others, who held trophies and breathed glory before falling down. They don't name him in the same breath as the ones who are remembered, and it makes you want to punch a hole into the wall of your flat, punch a hole into your heart, but you suppose he would be bothered by both (because his room is the room next door, and he likes his wall, and because he needs a functional support, not the mess you are.)

 

**iii**.

 

He hugs you after the first pentakill he gets on stage, a quiet, quick hug, before he draws away, and you are left with nothing but the burning traces on your back where he touched you. One of your teammates ruffles your hair and teases you about the ~~stars~~ in your eyes. You want to tell him that no ace in the world could be worth this, and you feel _powerful_.

 

The next day you mess up in training, and when you excuse yourself to get another cup of coffee, he follows you. The only thing you can think about when he asks you what's wrong is „i _must have messed up really badly if he asks me that_ “. It comes out as „Nothing, just didn't got much sleep tonight. Sorry about that“. You skip dinner that day and watch recordings of the last game.

 

 

 


End file.
